


An Anchor Is A Place Of Rest

by queenofkeys



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Angst, M/M, Slight swearing, but angst with a happy conclusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 04:33:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10846551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofkeys/pseuds/queenofkeys
Summary: Restless, overwhelmed and unable to sleep, Skinny thinks back to how it all began.





	An Anchor Is A Place Of Rest

It wasn’t unusual for Skinny to find himself awake at this time of night, the moonlight drifting in through the curtains. The light was illuminating the features of the man lying next to him, a comforting figure enveloped in the bed sheets. He continues to let Grant sleep, knows the man needs it just as much as him and his eyes inadvertently stray to the scar near his hairline and he feels a pang in his heart.

Far away from the horrors and tribulations of Europe and tucked up in his own bed, one would think he would sleep easier. He had spent so long wishing desperately for peace, but in the dark, quiet hours the peace seemed, well, almost too quiet. And the quiet was overwhelming.

No sound of gunfire. No pained screams. No sound of mortars exploding. No shouts for medics. These were sounds that he never wished to hear again, yet he couldn’t help but find the quiet uncomfortable. Unnerving even.

There was the occasional sound of birds and other indistinguishable animals, _‘I bet Shifty would recognise them just by the sound alone’_ , but of course that was vastly different from the sounds he had learnt to expect to hear. He was suddenly struck by the thought that _‘there had been absolutely no animals in Bastogne’._

Bastogne. Even the thought of the name sent a shudder through his body and he found himself clutching at the bed-sheets beneath him, trying to anchor himself, his eyes squeezed shut tightly.

Little had survived that place. It was a place that took and took, until there was nothing left of you. Those woods had taken Hoobler, Smokey, Muck, Penkala, Toye, Guarnere, Buck and many more. Of course, not all of the above had died. But that didn't matter in Bastogne. He didn’t believe in curses, but a place like that could very well change his mind. It was a place that took sacrifices wherever it could, in whatever form it could.

They had been stretched out on the line in Bastogne, yet they had been cramped together in their foxholes. Men practically living and breathing and just existing on top of one another. Even bleeding and dying the same way.

What was it Perconte had once said? Back when Skinny had been injured in Bastogne? _“Aww, Skinny. You got blood all over my trousers”._

He remembered being taken to the aid station. That once beautiful church. God seemed far removed from such a place. He remembered what he had said to Roe though, _“I'm in heaven, Doc”_. But then perhaps it was heaven compared to being on the front-lines. And admittedly the alcohol had been a decent distraction. It had not only numbed the pain, but numbed him to his surroundings. 

It was when the night came and most of the men had fallen asleep, a lull in between the shelling, that the panic almost began to creep over him. The quiet gave him time to think. It was too much. It always was. Panic was a luxury he could ill afford. He knew what happened to men who allowed it, they were sent off the line if they were lucky. Or they got themselves killed or worse, got others killed if they weren't so lucky. 

And Skinny refused to let down his friends. Refused to let Capt. Winters down. Refused to let the company down.

No, he wouldn’t let the dark thoughts overwhelm him. Not here. Not now. He had tried to think back to happier times. Back to Camp Toccoa, even if he wasn’t sure ‘happiness’ and ‘Sobel’ were two words that belonged in the same sentence. It was a poor effort though, with even poorer results.

Chuck Grant had suddenly come unbidden into his mind, leaving Skinny to struggle with himself for moment, debating whether or not to continue with those thoughts. In the morning he would blame it on the effects of the alcohol, but for that very moment, Skinny allowed himself to indulge for once.

Easy Company was, in his mind, no doubt filled with some of the most incredible men he had ever met. The salt of the earth as his Grandpa would have said, but it was Grant that pulled Skinny in the closest. There was something almost grounding about the man’s presence, an anchor in the midst of Easy. 

He had first met Chuck Grant in Camp Toccoa, their first exchange nothing more than a long, withering, sympathetic look at one another behind Sobel’s back. In those months, it seemed like a lot of those looks were being exchanged between all the men. 

But their resentment of Sobel only served to pull the men together, relying on each other for encouragement. Sobel may have yelled a lot about how _‘Every man must stand on his own’_ , but Easy never worked like that, even back in those far off training days.

It had been after a particularly exhausting day of training, that he found himself sat next to Grant in the mess hall. One word turned into two, then three and a rapid friendship had developed between the two.

Skinny remembered the first time he muttered a dry, sarcastic comment in Grant's direction. His friend seemed momentarily surprised by his dry sense of humor, before he threw his head back and laughed. That was the thing about Grant, he seemed to laugh with his whole body.

His thoughts next jumped to D-day. He had been lucky enough to run into some of the guys from his company, but he didn’t find Grant until much later. It had been a relief to see him and it seemed that Grant had felt the same way, judging by the way he quickly approached him. Grant had said nothing in greeting, just gave him a wide smile instead, his eyes seemingly blue as ever, before lighting up Skinny’s cigarette for him, after seeing him fumble around in his pockets for his lighter and come up empty.

It was when they were back on leave and watching the screening of ‘Seven Sinners’, that Skinny became more aware of what there could be between them. Him and Grant had been some of the last men to enter the hall and as a result had ended up in the back seats. Even in the relative darkness it was easy for Skinny to pick out Luz impersonating John Wayne and he nudged Grant with his shoulder to get his attention and pointed out George to him. A grin tugged at Grant's lips as he watched the scathing looks Lipton and Toye gave the Radio Technician, an exchange of words happening, even if they were unable to be heard from this distance.

“I'm not sure who's going to bite first, Lipton or Toye” commented Skinny. He had straightened up slightly in order to whisper into Grant's ear, but found himself too close and his lips inadvertently brushed over the top of his ear as he spoke. He could feel the man beside him shudder slightly as a result, though Grant kept his gaze half averted from him. The air suddenly felt heavy to Skinny and he swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. He didn’t really get much of a further chance to examine how he felt then, the MP’s arriving only moments later.

They never talked about that small moment they experienced and Skinny pretended that the red flush he found across his chest only moments later, was brought about by the anticipation of the mission and not anything else.

It was harder to deny the blue eyes he saw in his dreams the next time he had a chance to close his eyes.

+

In the months to come, he continued to stick near either Grant or some of his other friends from the company and it wasn’t until Bastogne that things began to really change between the two of them, both of them cramped together in a foxhole.

You couldn’t help but be close in such conditions and in the crappy weather that was Bastogne, most of the time you wanted to be close. And even then, the cold could be all encompassing and creep into your bones. Especially now, when Skinny was curled up in his foxhole alone, Grant's reassuring and warm presence absent, as he was escorting Roe on his search for more supplies. 

The subtle crunching of snow under foot was enough to alert him to Grant's return, but Skinny still readied his gun and peered over the edge of the foxhole, not willing to take any chances. Not when Germans and Americans alike seemed to be both stumbling through the enemy lines. 

The figure approaching was clearly his friend though and Skinny backed up, giving him room to slide in next to him. Grant's cheeks were clearly red as he sat down next to him, already rubbing his hands in an attempt to warm them up after holding onto his cold gun for so long. 

Skinny placed a cigarette between his lips and lit it, before taking it back in between his fingers and offering it to him. It was accepted appreciatively and Grant's fingers seemed to linger over his as the cigarette exchanged hands. And just like that, the air seemed heavy again, reminiscent of that moment in the film hall, except this time Chuck wasn’t looking away and he kept his gaze locked with Skinny’s as he took a drag from the cigarette.

It was him who looked away this time and he didn't get to see the odd mix of relief and disappointment that crossed Grant's face.

Later that night, after Lipton had made his rounds and visited every foxhole, (because fuck knows Lieutenant Dike wasn't going to do it), Skinny huddled closer to Grant, the encroaching night making the freezing temperatures sink even lower. They had their blankets tucked over them, but it wasn't enough to stand up to the biting cold. 

Skinny wanted to stamp his feet in an attempt to warm them up, but the last time he had done that, he had accidentally kicked Grant in the process. Instead he pressed his shoulder tighter against Grant's, their hands laying next to one another. His friend had been quiet all day since his return from the trip to find medical supplies and honestly it was beginning to unnerve him. It was almost as if he was brooding over something. 

“You think too much, Chuck” Skinny said, hoping to prompt a response out of him.

There was a pause before Grant turned his face to him, a small, wry smile playing on his face. “I suppose I do” he replied.

“Care to share with the class?” Skinny semi-joked, not liking the way he found Grant so unreadable right now. There was no response from him, at least none that came verbally. Under the blankets he could feel Grant’s hand slide over his, before sliding his fingers in between his and holding his hand tight. 

Those intense blue eyes were focusing on him again and Skinny refused to look away. Not this time. He merely pulled their entwined hands atop his thigh to let Grant know that this was wanted. 

He could feel the bumps of roughened calluses under his fingertips, knew that his hand must be the same. The war had shaped their hands, taken all softness, yet Grant's touch felt incredibly gentle all the same.

That wasn’t the last night they held hands. It became a regular occurrence every night unless they were joined by one of the other men. Sometimes Grant was the first to reach out, other times Skinny was the one to make the first move.

They never did anything more than hold hands or rest their head on the other's shoulder. They didn’t speak about it either. Saying anything out loud seemed too dangerous. And not just because someone could overhear them. If either of them said anything out loud, it became too real. It put what was between them into words. It meant no going back. 

And then Skinny had been injured and sent off the line. By the time he had come back to the company, they had lost too many good men and had moved on from the foxholes of Bastogne. 

There were too many eyes watching now and neither him or Grant dared reach out for the other. 

+

It had been pure chaos when they had brought back the injured Jackson along with the prisoners. 

Afterwards, he had escaped to another empty room in the building, feeling incredibly tired and sat on the dusty floor, idly flicking his lighter repeatedly. The very same one he had held to Jackson’s face as per Doc Roe's orders. _Lot of good that had done_. He watched as the flame would flicker into life only to peter out again. He was sure that Webster could have made a metaphor out of that.

“It’s safer down in the cellar” a voice spoke up. Skinny hadn't bothered to look up at the initial sound of approaching feet, but now he turned to see Grant propped up in the doorway. He hastily snapped his lighter shut and pocketed it away in his trousers. 

“He was just a kid,” Skinny said, ignoring the obvious hint that had been in Grant's previous words. “Just a kid” he repeated, voice quieter now. 

They had all known that perhaps Jackson’s ‘age’ didn’t quite match up with reality. No one said anything. You never did. At the end of the day he was here now and there was _sod_ all to do about it and if Jackson wanted to be here, then who were they to stop him?

In the meantime, Grant had slid down the wall to sit next to him, tilting his head back and closing his eyes momentarily, the shadows clearly evident under his eyes. Skinny could see the whistle that had been given to Grant only hours ago, still clutched in his hand, the cord almost cutting into his skin where he had it wrapped so tightly around his hand. It was a tiny thing to notice, but it showed Skinny that he wasn’t the only one feeling the pressure.

He wasn’t quite sure if it was gesture of comfort for himself or for Grant, but he gently eased the whistle from Grant's grip, before beginning to trace the line of indentations that had been left behind on his skin. He could feel Grant shift next to him. Though they may have been in an empty part of the building, they both knew it was hardly the safest of places to be doing this.

Neither of them made an effort to pull away though and Skinny found himself resting his head in the crook of Grant's shoulder and felt the man reciprocate in kind, laying his head against his. 

Grant's hands seemed even rougher than they had been back in Bastogne, but Skinny didn’t mind the texture. There was something reassuring, sturdy about them.

There was also something almost intoxicating about the scent of Grant, something distinctly him, as the previous day’s shower had cleaned away the numerous layers of grime and dirt. Skinny found himself turning and running his nose up the line of Grant's neck. 

Ever since that night in Mourmelon, when they had been watching that movie and he had seen the way that the pulse in Grant's neck had twitched as he had leant in to whisper to him, Skinny had wanted to kiss him exactly there. It wasn’t a chance he should be taking, but Skinny pressed his lips against soft skin anyway and was rewarded by the feel of Grant's pulse jumping against lips. 

He pressed another kiss to Grant's neck, slowly working his way over his skin. He felt Grant's grip on his hand tighten and felt the way he tilted his neck to expose more of it to him. It felt good to know that this was wanted, that he was wanted. Those nights in Bastogne had given him a taste, but that time felt so long ago now.

It was Grant that lifted his hand to cup Skinny’s cheek. And it was Grant that pulled his face towards him so he could press his lips against his. Grant's lips were warmer and smoother than he had expected them to be. Skinny would admit to imagining just what they might feel like against his. The way Grant kissed, fitted in perfectly with the rest of his personality. He was reassuring, steady, displaying that quiet strength that Skinny had come to recognise of him.

He parted his own lips under Grant's, welcoming an intensity in pace, a satisfied low moan catching at the back of his throat.

When they parted, it was obvious from the look in Grant's eyes that something had mostly definitely changed between them now. There was an added sweetness to his blue eyes now as he looked at Skinny and his hand brushed over his cheek softly. Yes, things had changed between them and as Skinny squeezed Grant's hand in return, he felt as though he was cementing a promise to the other man.

+

If Skinny hadn't been absolutely done with the godforsaken war after he had killed that fleeing SS Commandant, he was when he received the news that Grant had been shot. His hands had curled into tight fists, even his own blunt nails digging deep into his skin. He knew he wasn’t alone in his anger, it was practically raging through the company, a wildfire dangerously out of control.

But Skinny wasn’t just angry. He was scared. Scared to lose something that he wasn’t sure he ever had. Scared that he would lose Grant. Skinny had even been planning on eventually talking about what was between them, once the war was over. And all this because of some fucking guy that was suppose to be on their damn side. He only held himself together because he knew he had a duty to do. He grabbed his gun and went to help hunt down the bastard who had dared shoot one of their own.

+

Tab was clearly ruffled, which unnerved him even more. The man in question kept looking back over his shoulder, back towards the room where the obvious sounds of a beating were taking place. Skinny wished he was still in there.

He had thrown the first punch. There had been a satisfying crunch as his hand made contact with the shooter’s nose and his skin had come away tainted with blood. That satisfaction was short lived though. After all, a single punch couldn’t possibly compare to a bullet that may well have already taken Grant's life.

The thought had dazed him, almost knocked him down and even now, so many months down the line, he still didn’t know which of his friends had thrown the next punch. What he did remember was the distinct coldness of his pistol under his hand as he rested it on top of his holster. No one else seemed to notice, too intent on delivering their vengeance on the man in front of them.

Skinny had stepped out of the room. 

He had no idea if he could pull the trigger if he was to take his gun out, but his hands were shaking dangerously and if he was to hit one of the other men in such an enclosed space, he would never be able to forgive himself. And he knew that Chuck would want them all safe.

He strode past Tab and Luz, both of them looking up as he passed, but they didn't say anything even as he turned the corridor. He didn’t go much further though, just pressed his back against the wall and listened to the sounds coming from the other room. It wasn’t half as soothing as he had hoped it would be.

He didn't want to be here right now. He wanted to be by Grant, though logically he knew that there was little he could do. He trusted in Capt. Speirs though. Knew his leader was too stubborn, too determined to accept anything less on Grant’s behalf. Skinny’s own uselessness in the situation rankled at him though and he could feel himself biting harshly into his lower lip. 

He could practically taste the blood in his mouth again. 

+

It was the sensation of a warm hand wrapping around his wrist that pulled him from his thoughts. Grant was looking up at him, his thumb tracing over his pulse, trying to soothe him. He always did seem to have a sixth sense when it came to Skinny and his more darker, sombre moments.

They couldn’t be like this in public, the war had changed much, but it hadn’t changed that. Alone in this room though, this was safe. They were free from judgement, free to be themselves.

“Wayne? Skinny?” Chuck prompts and the sound of that second name is almost a kick to the stomach. He wasn’t Skinny anymore, not here. A frown immediately marrs Chuck's features, already knowing what he had said was wrong. He moves to rest his arm over Skinny’s stomach and presses himself against Skinny’s side, his body heat providing a welcomed comfort.

“I'm safe. I'm here,” Grant murmurs in reassurance, knowing that is what often most worries his lover. “And you're safe and here” Grant adds and Skinny knows that this later part is the most important to Grant.

And while the scar along Grant's hairline is a stark reminder that not everything is alright, Grant's presence remains the same. He's steady and reassuring and though it's sometimes not mimicked by his hands, he feels it nonetheless.

Skinny had once thought of Grant as an anchor amidst Easy company, but now with the men all separated and all but dispersed, perhaps Grant was now _just his anchor_. And while he was no anchor himself, Skinny knew that Grant needed him just as much as in return. Skinny lived for the days when he could make him laugh freely again, just like he had done back in Camp Toccoa.

They had come far together and he knew they that had further still to go, but Skinny had belief in the two of them together and as Chuck wrapped his hand around his, he had never felt it symbolised more.


End file.
